


The Fallen's Favour

by obaewankenope (rexthranduil)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Asexuality Spectrum, Aziraphale is a BAMF, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), BAMF Crowley (Good Omens), BAMF!Aziraphale, BAMF!Crowley - Freeform, Crowley Was Raphael Before He Fell (Good Omens), Crowley hates pushy bosses as a result, Dubcon Kissing, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, Hurt Crowley, Hurt/Comfort, Lucifer is a creepy sonofabitch, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Possessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-11 18:44:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20158300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rexthranduil/pseuds/obaewankenope
Summary: Lucifer sent Crowley up to Eden for several reasons, which were;One: because Lucifer himself didn’t want to go.Two: because next to him, Crowley was the next best at actually succeeding at being tempting with words and not resorting to violence—none of the Dukes seemed to comprehend that terrifying the humans in Eden into committing a sin wouldn't actually work out well for them.Three: because Lucifer quite liked the view of Crowley crawling through the ceiling and making his way up to Her little playground.





	The Fallen's Favour

**Author's Note:**

> Not gonna lie, this really got away from me. It was only meant to be Lucifer/Crowley porn and instead it developed one heck of a plot. Oops.
> 
> I'd like to blame the whole #nsfw-omens discord channel for this to be honest: this is all ya'll's fault. Be proud.

Lucifer sent Crowley up to Eden for several reasons, which were;

One: because Lucifer himself didn’t want to go. He’d just taken over some new real estate and that took precedence over a tempting of the two little dust-monkeys She seemed so hung up on. Lucifer didn’t care for them personally himself, but he did have to admit that they were somewhat entertaining. A little boring though. That’s why they needed some temptation; liven things up around Eden.

Two: because next to him, Crowley was the next best at actually succeeding at being tempting with words and not resorting to violence—none of the Dukes seemed to comprehend that terrifying the humans in Eden into committing a sin wouldn't actually work out well for them. Crowley possesses the same sort of wily nature that enables someone to come up with answers on the spot with no prior warning. Lucifer respected that since it was that sort of quick-thinking that kept the newly-christened Devil from being turned into cosmic paste by a displeased all-powerful deity.

Three: because Lucifer quite liked the view of Crowley crawling through the ceiling and making his way up to Her little playground. Imagine, if you will, the view you would have of someone whom you find somewhat attractive—physically, aesthetically, whatever floats your boat—trying to push themselves into clothing much too tight for them. You get to notice the strategic bulges and the flashes of skin that are so very tantalising. Now imagine you’re witnessing something like that except you’re stood directly beneath your interest and they’re wearing a very long robe with layers that just, _just_ hint at something. _That_ was the view Lucifer quite enjoyed.

He didn’t exactly expect much from Crowley, Lucifer can admit that, considering that the demon never really wanted to fall but sort of joined the rest of the mob—like an unsuspecting passer-by on the street who gets swept up in the crowd heading to [insert government building here] because they’re rather sick of being shafted by their leaders. Hearing about it through the grapevine that Crowley managed to tempt one of Her first humans and in doing so created _Original Sin_ was a sign to Lucifer that he ought to appreciate Crowley for more than just his physical appeal.

Although he offered the role to Crowley several times, the demon who created Original Sin never accepted the position of a Duke of Hell. If Lucifer had it his way, the more and more he came to know the demon, he’d have made him run hell instead of Beelzebub but that idea was strictly for Lucifer to know and for none of his hoard to ever learn. A lot of them seemed to like Beelzebub being the head of the Dukes for some reason.

They were very good at their job so maybe there was some appreciation of work ethic in hell that Lucifer didn’t know about? No matter, he didn’t much care anyway.

Over the years of Crowley’s stationing on earth—the only thing the demon actually seemed to want—Lucifer made sure to check in regularly, call him back for reports to be given in person, and made it a point to wine and dine the demon. Perhaps Crowley was a little thick or slow on the uptake but Lucifer was a lot more patient than others first assumed. He was waiting six thousand years for the apocalypse after all, how could he not be patient? Anyway, Crowley seemed to have finally grown wise to what Lucifer was doing somewhere around the point where the demon made a minor comment about a tempting he had to perform that wasn’t quite to plan and Lucifer innocently offered to show him how it was done.

Lucifer would have liked Crowley to have realised _before_ they reached that point but he got there in the end.

“It’s not as difficult as you’d think,” Lucifer explains casually, fingers with nails too sharp to be mistaken for anything other than claws gently running through Crowley’s hair, teasing the demon’s scalp. He feels Crowley’s full-body shiver at the sensation and it makes Lucifer’s lips quirk. “Of course, it’s all a state of mind as well as being. Can’t go at it feeling stressed; that just ruins the whole thing.”

Crowley, it seems, has lost his voice, the slippery serpent of Eden, the originator of Sin itself, powerless in the face of something he seems to not be able to handle.

Lucifer isn’t quite that terrifying, is he? Yes, yes he is, but it’s not terrifying he wants to be right now. It’s _seductive_.

“You see, there’s lots of ways to go about the act itself,” he says, leaning forward a little from the spot he’s in beside Crowley who is frozen to the spot. Lucifer lets his voice drop an octave, enjoying the way Crowley shivers when the change registers. “Some start slow and work their way up to the big things, others are a little harsher and quicker about it all. But it’s all the same in the end, they all chase the same goal.”

Lucifer twists his fingers through those lovely red tresses and pulls ever so gently, tilting Crowley’s head back. The demon doesn’t fight him, bares his throat willingly and is forced to look the Devil in the eye. Those golden, serpentine eyes are every bit as wonderful as the fiery red hair and Lucifer smiles. It’s not a nice smile but it is like a benediction almost—though a lot more _sinful_ than any benediction ought be.

“Some enjoy being wined-and-dined,” Lucifer continues, smile growing a bit more lewd when Crowley’s eyes widen and his chest stutters, “while others just want to be fucked with no preamble.” The Devil leans in so close his lips are brushing against Crowley’s own. “I chose to be kind,” he breathes.

And then he kisses the Serpent with a burning passion of longing and lust that has built into a carnal fascination over the years. Crowley lets out a sound, instinct making him react to the contact, the pressure and the heat that is the Essence of Lucifer, the Morning Star as the First of the Fallen tries to consume him. A hand grips at Lucifer’s shirt, creasing the smooth fabric, finger digging in and bruising flesh that is like marble to the touch.

Lucifer growls deep, possessiveness and the need for control pushing him to pull on Crowley’s hair tighter, make the Serpent’s head arch back to a painful angle, forcing the demon to cling at him or risk all his weight being supported by a few strands of sensitive hair woven in Lucifer’s hand. The way Crowley clings to him, even as he tries to shift, to move, spurs Lucifer on and he forces his tongue inside of Crowley’s mouth, bringing with him the burning agony of hellfire tainted with Grace. It makes Crowley gasp out, whine and writhe in a paradoxical mixture of pain and pleasure from the heat that’s too hot to handle.

Just as Lucifer thinks this is going to end, that Crowley is going to keep struggling and panicking inside that complex little mind of his, the Serpent of Eden shifts into gear, body twisting in a sinewy way, hands curling up along Lucifer’s sides and gripping at the back of his shirt just where his wings would manifest. The heat of Crowley’s hands there makes him groan and push more passion into the kiss that he’s consuming the demon with. Crowley’s legs, thanks to that fantastic way of being a snake, all but slither beneath Lucifer’s body, crawling up and around his waist to hook heel-over-heel and bracketing Lucifer firmly between the demon’s legs.

He thrusts forward, greatly enjoying the way Crowley bucks up when Lucifer’s physically human form ruts against the demon’s own. It’s heady, the power and control and absolutely filthy the noises he’s swallowing from Crowley’s mouth. Lucifer uses his other hand to claw at Crowley’s shirt, tearing material and singeing it with hellfire-tipped claws to get at the skin beneath.

“Some humans need more than you to be tempted, darling,” Lucifer says when he pulls away from Crowley’s mouth, enjoying the sight of the demon automatically following after his lips, chasing the oblivion of the Devil’s kiss. “I’m quite pleased you’re not holding out on me. I have waited for quite a while.”

“W- h- I- how long?” Crowley croaks and he sounds so very wrecked that Lucifer purrs in his chest like a contented cat. The sight of Crowley beneath him, the sound of him so broken and desperate for more… it is a heady mixture that has Lucifer grinding his hips against Crowley’s own making the demon crack out a gasp and a moan.

“Oh, since I first saw you in my domain,” Lucifer admits pleasantly, touching the tip of his nose against Crowley’s own, not allowing the demon to touch his lips even though Crowley chases after them when Lucifer lifts his head away. “You were such a pleasant sight for me, I’ll admit. Surrounded by all the filth and despair and destruction from Her and those who fell with me. You’re such a bright thing really. I just _had_ to have you somehow.”

Crowley stares at him, mouth open in little pants, eyes wide and Lucifer sees so much in those golden eyes that he wants to take and tear into and sully and stain. It’s _wonderful_.

He opts to thrust lightly against Crowley, pulling on the demon’s hair at the same moment and grins fiendishly at the loud moan it drags from the Serpent.

“Maybe you’re not quite suited to hell, darling, but I confess, I’m awfully selfish when it comes to the things I covet,” Lucifer continues and he does something Crowley doesn’t expect because the demon lets out a weak howl.

The Devil dips his claws beneath skin and touches the core of the essence of the Serpent of Eden even as he banishes their clothing and presses inside of Crowley’s human form, overwhelming him with dual sensation. One is dull in comparison to the other but Lucifer creates a feedback loop with every thrust of his hips, cock sliding inside Crowley’s body in tandem with each stroking pulse of Lucifer’s fingers on Crowley’s essence.

Crowley can’t last, not like that, and Lucifer takes every ounce of pleasure he can out of the demon beneath him even as he almost obliterates him with the sheer intensity of the pleasure Crowley’s entire being is experiencing. He shudders and writhes, freezes and burns, arches and bucks and through it all Lucifer fucks into him with a cock no human could have and that impales the prostate in Crowley’s physical form at the perfect angle to never let him breathe or think or do anything but _scream_.

Lucifer watches Crowley after, while the demon is unconscious, and he traces a hand along the face he has secretly coveted for a long while. It’s fascinating, how very similar to himself he finds the Serpent of Eden. If only Crowley were more cruel than he is.

“I can teach you to be cruel, darling,” Lucifer murmurs delicately. “I’ll teach you how to be evil and you’ll _thank_ me for it.”

* * *

Time passes and Crowley goes about his business up on earth, meeting with Aziraphale regularly—whether the angel enjoys the meetings or not—and each encounter makes something in Crowley soften and warm up to the celestial being far too intent on being Good. There’s so much kindness in the angel, the type of kindness that can do terrible things and justify them because it embodies a “it’s the ends that justifies the means” kind of logic. Crowley isn’t quite sure if that’s really Good or not but it’s very much on par with how She behaves towards the humans and everything else in the cosmos so at least it’s Proper of the angel.

He grows closer to Aziraphale, drawn to him more and more as time passes and he enjoys the angel’s company; the sarcasm thinly hidden behind manners, the way Aziraphale leans a little into him the longer they stand together watching humanity suffer, how the angel always pretends to be annoyed when he shows up but has a gleam in those ocean eyes that betrays the happiness. Crowley lo- enjoys those eyes.

Rome is the first time that Aziraphale actually seeks him out. Crowley knows because the angel’s essence is easy for him to sense—a special talent no other celestial or infernal being seems to possess; and Crowley had broken into the records room in hell to find out for certain—so he’s not at all surprised when Aziraphale shows up in the same tavern as him. He _is _surprised when the angel actually _talks _to him.

It builds into a sort of friendly relationship of companionship that Crowley really wants to make more of. He does make more of it, really. The angel may like talking to him but Crowley figures that’s more because he’s the only other immortal being stuck on earth rather than anything else. Crowley is a demon. He’s Fallen. Aziraphale talks to him, compliments him when Crowley carries out less demonic acts than he ought, but that’s all it is. There’s a comfort in knowing your own personal devil and that’s what Crowley is to Aziraphale—the personal devil the angel has wrapped around his celestial finger without even realising.

Every visit to hell reminds Crowley more and more viscerally of why the angel would want not a thing to do with him beyond their basic friendship and Arrangement. There are scars on Crowley’s body that cannot be miracled away—he knows because he’s tried—and they are scars he comes to hide more and more from view. Back in Rome, Crowley’s outfit was a bit more open, showed more skin as was the custom, but closer and closer to the end of earth’s existence finds Crowley covering up more. His arms bear marks he’ll never willingly show the angel because then Aziraphale would know Crowley is as monstrous as a demon can be.

It leaves him in a metaphorical catch-22 situation. He wants Aziraphale—God knows he wants the angel—but he can’t have the him because Crowley is claimed already. Crowley has no free will in the end.

Until he _does_.

* * *

“Just a bit tired is all,” Crowley had muttered before disappearing off and heading to his flat. It wasn’t exactly a lie. Crowley was tired. Is tired. A little nap. Short while, get some rest, recover, pass the time. That’s what he’d told Aziraphale.

It’s a shame that Aziraphale hadn’t stopped him, insisted Crowley remain a little longer to discuss their Arrangement. Unfortunately the angel didn’t—he’d never stop Crowley from leaving, he’d learnt that quickly in their relationship and it hurts him still to think about it, never being stopped by the one person he wishes would—and Crowley was back in hell before the days end.

He didn’t expect to be there so long. Didn’t expect-

Well, Crowley knows what he expected and received exactly that. He doesn’t expect Lucifer to appear in the room he’d so casually assigned as Crowley’s own—a gilded cage; only the best for the pretty bird the Devil wanted to ruin with his oily touch—and drag him to the bed by his hair. He doesn’t expect the rough tenderness that is just too close to cruel to be anything truly good as Lucifer runs his hands down his body, claiming him again and again in so many different ways.

He expects to be used and to pretend to enjoy it less than he really does—because Crowley is being used and it fills a hole in him gouged by being abandoned by Her and he hates that he feels so much better even as he hates himself more—but he doesn’t expect the things Lucifer _says_.

The things the Devil shouldn’t _know_.

“You look so lovely spread out beneath me, darling,” Lucifer says, thrusting again and Crowley lets out a keening sound. It's such a _broken_ noise that Lucifer grins and thrusts again, burying deeper inside the demon. “I wonder if that angel—oh yes, I know about him—has seen you like this.”

Crowley freezes beneath him, muscles tightening in reactive fear and Lucifer groans at the pressure on his cock from it. He pushes in again, as deep as he can and revels in the aching pulsing pressure on his cock as Crowley's body squeezes him. His hands are on Crowley's arms, pinning the demon beneath him as he continues to fuck him senseless but the sharp scent of fear makes Lucifer's teeth sharpen and he smiles so less kindly than he has been.

“I should hope he hasn't,” he croons softly at odds with the almost painful grip his hands have on Crowley's arms, the skin purpling and bruising from the strength of it. He leans down, face close to Crowley's whose eyes are wide, lips open as he pants and keens and tries so _so hard_ not to writhe from the pleasure of Lucifer's thrusts. “I'd have to gouge all his eyes out for witnessing such a sight as you _my dear_.”

The horror of it all undoes him and Crowley comes, splattering Lucifer’s chest with cum. It makes Lucifer laugh, still thrusting in him, deeper and deeper and Lucifer doesn’t stop fucking him. Crowley’s body is shaking, overstimulated, used and burnt out from fear and terror and lust, and Lucifer _revels in it._ He fucks harder, making Crowley cry out weakly, body twisting and instinctively trying to get away from _too much sensation _but Lucifer keeps him pinned. Punishes him with pleasure that becomes pain in that brilliant mind and if Lucifer digs fingers beneath Crowley’s skin and sears a mark that makes it clear to all who Crowley belongs to; the demon is too far gone in sensation to notice.

But his precious little angel will. When he sees it.

And Lucifer _knows _the little principality will see the mark. He’s just not sure _when_.

* * *

Crowley hides the marks he _does _know about for as long as he possibly can but there’s Adam standing and facing down _the Devil_ who seems to be torn between anger at his son and anger at Crowley for siding with humans and a rebellious child. There’s so much fear in Crowley’s chest that it’s drowning out everything else except the stubborn refusal to give up because _Aziraphale needs him_. Aziraphale asked him. And that means _everything_ to Crowley now.

It always has really.

Watching the Devil fizzle away to nothing, after everything that has happened so far is… surprising. Adam ignoring his human father to turn to Crowley and hug him unexpectedly is… it breaks something in Crowley, he’ll admit.

He doesn’t expect the kindness of the act. No one touches him. Not even Aziraphale most of the time. Casual touch is not something Crowley allows except from children and Adam is—no matter what—a child.

And children always _know _that Crowley is hurting. There’s wisdom in innocence and it draws children to him no matter what. But Crowley loves kids anyway so he doesn’t feel too bad about the fact that they try so hard to comfort him even when he’s not worth being comforted and when he’s just trying to make sure they’re safe in a cruel cosmos.

Adam murmurs something into Crowley’s chest, something that digs inside of the demon and makes something tremble. It’s not fear. It’s not dread. It’s like the slow uncoiling of a python that’s been wrapped around its prey for so long and finally just gives up. He feels suddenly like he can breathe and not tremble with fear at the thought of Lucifer.

Then Adam is pulling away and Crowley stumbles and is caught by a hand on his arm. A hand connected to an angel who stares at him with eyes full of emotion and questions and, most importantly, kindness.

Everything after that happens in a sort of strange haze for Crowley even though he can remember it all clearly and knows he seemed fine to the rest of existence. But the moment the angel is led into his flat is the point where everything Crowley has constructed in his life seems to begin to shatter.

It’s slow at first, a few spider-web cracks appearing in a pane of glass that start to spread rapidly, creating new patterns of cracks until, eventually, it all gives in. When glass shatters it doesn’t just go in one direction; glass shatters inwards and outwards, upwards and downwards and always, always makes a heck of mess.

It only stands to reason that when Crowley shatters he makes a heck of a mess that an angel has to tidy up in a panic.

“Crowley! Crowley, what’s wrong?” Aziraphale’s voice conveys panic like nothing else, high and pitched in a way that reminds Crowley of a whistling kettle desperate for the heat to be turned off. “Crowley darling, _talk to me_.”

It takes everything in Crowley to drag enough of his mind together to actually string words together. They come out in stuttering pants, breathy and barely audible because he’s not _breathing enough_. “He- Ad- Sa- It- Just- _Hold Me_.”

Even though it’s such a pathetically weak thing to ask—beg—for, Aziraphale doesn’t refuse him. If anything, the angel doesn’t even seem to think before he’s curling himself around Crowley like a snake himself and engulfing the demon in the scent and feeling of everything _Aziraphale_.

Breathing is easier when he can smell Aziraphale. His chest feels looser, that python Adam made release its hold dissolving for good the longer he’s held by the angel he’s denied himself for so _so_ _long._

But they can’t stay like this forever. They need to plan. They need to know what to do about heaven and hell. Crowley has to plan. He has to sort it out.

Heaven will probably punish Aziraphale horribly, maybe even make him _Fall_ but hell… hell will want Crowley dead. Beelzebub and Hastur especially. Nothing will spare him from death and Crowley doesn’t regret that fact. He’s not scared of dying. He’s scared of losing Aziraphale.

But if he dies instead? Well—he can live with that.

He considers the question of the Devil but it’s batted away with so much panic attached that all Crowley knows for certain is that Lucifer won’t save him. He won’t deny the rest of hell the chance to punish the betrayer. Heck, he might even be the one to deliver the killing blow.

Adam did something else to him but Crowley doesn’t quite know what he did, only that he feels different. He wonders, briefly, if Aziraphale feels different, in a body made by the antichrist instead of one delivered by heaven.

“We- Agnes knows how we’ll handle heaven and hell,” Aziraphale says and Crowley realises he’s said something about dealing with hell out loud. It draws the demon back to himself and he’s so much calmer now that he pulls a little out of Aziraphale’s embrace, just enough to look at the angel. “We must choose our faces wisely.”

Crowley frowns and his mind is a little slow so it takes him longer to figure it out but when he does his eyes widen. “Would that even work?” Would heaven and hell be fooled?

“If we believe it will, then it will,” is Aziraphale’s simple answer and it’s true. Their power comes from belief. Even if hell expects Crowley to die when he touches holy water, an angel wearing his face wouldn’t be him and thus would be immune from the power of that belief—even in the stronghold of evil.

The same would hold true of heaven.

“Heaven will want me dead, for rebelling.” Aziraphale seems disturbingly at peace with that idea even though Crowley’s heart beats a little harder at the idea. “Or they’d try to make me Fall but only She can do that and- well- I don’t think She would.”

“How- how can you be so sure?” Crowley’s voice is so quiet and weak, it’s heavy with pain and grief and self-blame because if Aziraphale falls it will be _Crowley’s fault_.

“Because She would have cast me out the moment I rebelled against heaven’s orders,” Aziraphale answers and there’s more faith and sureness in the angel about this fact alone than Crowley’s ever heard from him.

It soothes some of Crowley’s fear over the idea.

“Okay angel,” Crowley says, pulling further away from Aziraphale because it’s time for them to _focus. _“Let’s choose our faces.”

* * *

Crowley is in heaven being tried by Gabriel and Aziraphale is in hell going through this absolute farce of a trial. It irritates the angel but he’s got to keep pretending, needs to keep playing the game because this is important. They have to succeed. They can’t fail.

They’ve chosen their faces wisely and now all they can do is hope.

Hope is a powerful thing for humans, it’s powerful for angels too. For Crowley, Aziraphale knows, it’s more of a tense balancing act. The demon has hoped too many times in too many ways to ever really believe in the absolute power of hope.

It’s still all they need to get through this however so Aziraphale _hopes and hopes and hopes_.

Death by holy water is a painful death for a demon. Agonising in fact. Crowley wouldn’t die quickly like that little demon either. He’s older. Stronger. One of the first of the fallen—something Aziraphale realised the moment he assumed the form of his demonic friend; there’s age to the bones he’s pretending to be in and some sort of aching pain that never seems to fade. Aziraphale and Crowley hadn’t truly swapped bodies—that would have defeated the purpose of choosing their faces—they had changed their forms to emulate each other. Something that is as easy to them as breathing for celestial and infernal can change how they appear at will.

They both happened to just be rather attached to how they currently look.

So Aziraphale doesn’t really hesitate to climb in the bathtub. He’s fine with it and Crowley has never been the type to get emotional over being killed. If anything, the demon has sometimes exuded the aura of someone who _hopes _to die. That priest in 1307 had nearly managed to pour holy water on Crowley had it not been for Aziraphale interfering. The demon hadn’t even really fought—and Aziraphale knows Crowley can fight, he saw him as the black knight and the demon was _good_ at battle. So Aziraphale knows that Crowley wouldn’t hesitate when faced with death.

He _would_ be snarky about it, however.

Which his exactly what Aziraphale is and he has to admit it’s rather _fun _to see the slowly dawning _horror _on the faces of the demons when he doesn’t start to sizzle and burn and scream.

There’s something a little off about it all, the trial, after Michael returns, almost drops the jug in shock and miracles him a towel on reflex. It’s like someone is watching and isn’t horrified or shocked. It’s like they’re… contemplative. Aziraphale doesn’t know who it is but it’s something that he’s glad to leave behind. He doesn’t want Crowley to be targeted by hell for work or something because they think he’s immune to all things holy.

Seeing Crowley in St James’ Park wearing Aziraphale’s face is jarring but such a _relief_ that Aziraphale is too buzzed to effectively check if they’re being watched and it falls to Crowley to do it before they return to their preferred forms.

It soothes him to just be near the demon, so much so that on a different plane to the physical, Aziraphale unfurls a wing and holds it over Crowley in an echo of their first meeting. Instinct drives him to be protective and he doesn’t fight the instinct when they leave the garden and go to the Ritz. His wings are out and angled always to Crowley, protective and possessive and he knows Crowley can feel it because the demon is softer, warmer, and so much more receptive than he’s ever been to any of Aziraphale’s overtures—and it’s because they’re on their own side and Aziraphale is _happy _to be on their own side.

Everything has changed so much.

He returns to the bookshop and doesn’t allow Crowley to slide away to the flat with it’s dark colours. No, Aziraphale is keeping Crowley close and in a place where love oozes out of it because the demon needs love and Aziraphale has so much of it to give him.

So, of course, it is typical that standing in the middle of his bookshop is someone who shouldn’t be there and Aziraphale is so very close to snapping and miracling them to the desert because he has _things to do_.

Crowley, behind him, freezes and there’s a sudden burst of fear, soul-breaking terror before it’s hidden under a blanket of sheer stubborn will.

Whoever stands in his shop is someone Crowley knows and _fears _so much.

The stranger turns and they are definitely not human. There’s too much light in those eyes to be human. But they seem not at all demonic—no aura of crackling hellfire like Crowley vaguely tastes of—and Aziraphale can only assume they’re an angel.

He doesn’t realise it’s the Morning Star himself until he finds himself pinned against a wall with a blessed blade pressed lightly against his throat after rushing the stranger.

Only the Morning Star has a blade such as the one at his throat and only the Morning Star could appear to not be a demon when he’s the most demonic of them all.

“Crowley, I see your little angel has some fight in him.” Lucifer looks at Aziraphale, a smile on his face but it’s a rather cold smile, bitter and quite possessively jealous. The smile warms somewhat when the Morning Star looks at Crowley.

Crowley who is all but trembling and holding a blade that Aziraphale has never seen before but recognises as both blessed and infernal.

There’s a fire to it that twines itself in equal measure of divine and demonic and it’s rather mesmerising and Aziraphale will be asking Crowley about it _later _but now- now he can only watch as his demon stares down his old boss and shakes.

“Lucifer.” Even if Crowley’s body is shaking his voice is level, controlled, and there’s a lot of _something _in it that makes Aziraphale want to posture with his wings and hide the demon from the sight of Lucifer.

Instead Aziraphale is stuck almost on the tips of his toes, head angled back, to avoid a blessed bloody blade from slicing his throat and ending him in a single twitch.

“I had wondered why you didn’t seem quite right at your trial,” Lucifer says and the smile turns devious, knowing, and Aziraphale’s heart seizes, his angelic essence trembles because _the Morning Star knows_. “Of course, I realised the moment I couldn’t sense all those lovely marks of mine.”

“You didn’t- you didn’t stop the trial though,” Crowley responds, licking his lips and the blade in his hand seems to shine brighter for a moment.

Lucifer laughs. “Of course not! I don’t want you dead, it’s no fun watching a beautiful thing be killed by idiocy.” The Morning Star pauses. “Not that you could have died from holy water but that’s something the rest of hell would have found out the moment you began to strip and saw every mark on you.”

Aziraphale frowns. _Marks?_

Lucifer looks at him. “Oh yes, marks. It’s obvious now that dear Crowley hasn’t shown you them,” Lucifer explains. “I had expected him too but- I suppose I get to show you them. Now, just stay right there for a moment would you? Good angel.”

Suddenly the Morning Star is moving and Aziraphale _can’t move _even though the blade is gone from his throat. All he can do is watch as Lucifer, the First of the Fallen, attacks Crowley. “No!”

Aziraphale has seen Crowley wield a blade several times in six thousand years. Each time it’s always seemed like Crowley dislikes the violence, goes out of his way to get the combat over as quickly as possible and to not kill unless it’s necessary. He has left a _lot _of soldiers on battlefields with embarrassingly awkward injuries more than he has killed them over the years but there have been exceptions.

Watching Crowley fight the _Morning Star himself _now is an exception. Crowley isn’t fighting to avoid conflict, he’s putting everything into each move, trying to cause injuries that will kill. Aziraphale is no slouch with a blade but he also dislikes using a blade even if he’s good with them. He prefers to be kind rather than cruel and a blade is a cruel, cruel thing. It’s even more cruel when it’s blessed.

“I’m impressed, darling,” the Morning Star says. “I didn’t expect you to be quite this skilled. It makes you all the more interesting. A lovely mess of contradictions.”

A nick of the Morning Star’s blade has Crowley hissing and dancing back, a deep slice across his chest that reveals skin but hasn’t parted it. It’s either a lucky save or the Morning Star is _playing with Crowley_. It makes Aziraphale rage all the more from where he’s pinned to the wall by a will he can’t fight enough to do more than twitch his fingers.

Another twist of Crowley’s body has him dodging out of the way of a particularly harsh slash of the Morning Star’s blade, one that would have easily dropped the demon had it connected, and it brings Crowley closer to Aziraphale, his back to the angel.

The Morning Star spoke of marks on Crowley and Aziraphale is focused on the demon in front of him, so focused that when Crowley stretches and parries a blow Aziraphale sees something _very specific_ on the back of Crowley’s neck, just below where his coats usually hide it.

Now, Aziraphale is a principality. Compared to the Morning Star he’s a nobody. But he’s also a cherubim and cherubim are strong. Only saraphim outrank the cherubim. The Morning Star might be a saraph but Crowley is no weak thing—not with the blade he wields—and Aziraphale is definitely _not weak_.

His wings snap into being, pushing him from the wall, and the anger—the _wrath and rage_—Aziraphale feels breaks the power of the Morning Star over him. He’s moving forward, a wing darting forward and slamming into the Morning Star just as Crowley catches a swing with his blade. The force of Aziraphale’s wing has the Morning Star crashing into a bookshelf that collapses over him and Aziraphale wastes no time in conjuring a blade he gave away only days ago.

The blade has always been Aziraphale’s. It always will be Aziraphale’s. And right now he has a need for it. So it comes.

“Two on one, really?” the Morning Star taunts.

“Really,” Aziraphale bites out.

Crowley settles beside him, standing close enough that Aziraphale can _feel _power thrumming through the demon but they aren’t so close as to get in the way of each other when the Morning Star stands and attacks them both with a twisted sneer.

“Well, in other circumstances I’d be flattered but not right now,” says the Morning Star harshly.

There’s a lot of anger and hate in that sneer, ugly and destructive and very much not welcome in Aziraphale’s bookshop. So he makes that fact known with the Flaming Sword of Eden.

Crowley and he attack together, movements in sync from six thousand years of knowing each other, of coming to trust and care for each other, and it makes them a Force To Be Reckoned With as the Morning Star quickly comes to learn. Each attack from him is blocked by Crowley or Aziraphale as the other slashes and cuts at skin, revealing the corrupted divinity beneath the mortal shell.

A lucky hit from the Morning Star has Aziraphale hissing out in pain and drawing back, Crowley instinctively covering as the angel shifts his blade to his other hand. It’s a problem, because Aziraphale favours a specific hand but it’s not so much a problem as an inconvenience. He doesn’t hesitate to jump back into the fray the moment he’s swapped hands.

“Oh I bet that hurts,” the Morning Star mocks and Aziraphale responds to the mockery with his blade, taking a vicious sort of pleasure in the way it singes the skin it manages to glancingly catch. “I think I’m going to rip out your spine and use it for a candle holder little angel.”

Aziraphale doesn’t quake at the threat, the menace of it, but he does find his spine tingling a little at the threat.

“Leave him alone!” Crowley barks, slamming his blade into the Morning Star’s and then they’re struggling against each other and Aziraphale moves forward only for the wings of the Morning Star to manifest and slam into him, sending him flying. “Aziraphale!”

“Oh that’s got to hurt!” The Morning Star laughs.

Aziraphale crashes into another bookcase, this one collapsing on top of him from the force of his impact and his wings are pinned by the heavy wood, protecting his mortal form from any real harm. It’s not pleasant but it means he’s not discorporated so there’s that at least.

He uses a miracle to give him the strength to push the bookcase off him with his wings and staggers to his feet, just in time to witness something he never expected to see.

Crowley driving his blade directly into the chest of the Morning Star with a snarl on his face while the Morning Star stares at him with open shock on that beautiful face.

And then the world goes white.

Aziraphale wakes to darkness. It makes him panic and he snaps his fingers and summons light with panicked breathes. His bookshop is illuminated in a soft white glow and it eases his chest a little until he realises that there’s so much chaos and it was-

“Crowley!” Aziraphale shouts, panic clawing his throat raw and his voice is a pained croak that he ignores. “Crowley!”

A deep groan from across the bookshop has Aziraphale rushing across the chaos of books and broken wood and bits of plaster from the ceiling toward the noise. He finds the source half-buried under books and feathers.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale drops to his knees, shoving books aside, uncaring of the damage done to them because _Crowley is hurt_ and that takes precedence always. “Oh heavens!”

“Nrg…. Angel?” Crowley slurs, weak and disoriented and Aziraphale wants to let out a cry of relief. He settles for digging the demon out of the books and feathers that seem to be- well there’s a lot of them. It worries Aziraphale but he’s more focused on pulling Crowley out of the books and gripping the demon in a tight embrace.

“Oh Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers, clinging frantically to the demon who slowly brings his hands up to embrace the angel. “I was so scared.”

“It’s- it’s all right angel,” Crowley says, trying to comfort him like always and Aziraphale wants to _cry_ because of course Crowley is trying to comfort him. Crowley has always been there for Aziraphale.

But Aziraphale wasn’t there for Crowley.

“No, no it’s not,” Aziraphale says, pulling back to look Crowley in the eye. “I’m sorry, I didn’t- I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

It’s not. It’s neither of their fault but that doesn’t change how Aziraphale feels. The angel just pulls Crowley back into his embrace, burying his head into the demon’s neck. They’re both bruised and battered with cuts and bloodied but it doesn’t matter because they’re both alive and the Morning Star is _gone_.

“Uh, angel,” Crowley says after a long moment. The demon’s voice is tense, a little nervous and Aziraphale is instantly on edge.

“What is it?” He pulls back and looks around the bookshop. “What is it Crowley?”

“I don’t feel right,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale looks at him, really looks at him. Crowley’s face is pale, blood on the side of his face from a nasty cut or bash into some books. There’s little abrasions dotted about on his face and everywhere else.

“Are you- did he injure you?” Aziraphale asks and he wants the answer to be _no_. Please let it be no.

“Nothing deadly.” Crowley looks at his hands, opens and closes them a few times. “It’s- I don’t feel the same. Like something has changed.”

Aziraphale looks at Crowley and Crowley looks at Aziraphale.

The bell over the door tingles and Aziraphale’s turning in a swift second, hands coming up and his flaming sword is back in his hands as he covers Crowley with his wings, protectively.

“Well this is a mess.”

Aziraphale blinks. “Gabriel.”

The archangel steps over a couple of Aziraphale’s books, grimacing at the state of the bookshop. Behind him are Sandalphon, Michael, Uriel, and Beelzebub with two demons that Aziraphale doesn’t recognise. All together it’s a strange little gang and it makes Aziraphale’s grip on his blade tighten.

“So,” Gabriel says, “which one of you did it?”

Aziraphale frowns and rises from the crouched position he’s in. Crowley rises with him, stepping to the side and out from behind Aziraphale’s wings.

“It wasn’t the angel,” Beelzebub says, glaring at him. “Still got those white wings.”

“Still got- what are you on about?” Aziraphale exclaims, confused, in pain, and tired as well as very on edge because this is the second time his home has been _invaded_.

“The death of the Devil.”

Aziraphale looks at Crowley. “What?”

The demon shakes his head, looking at the spot where the Morning Star had last been, a blade buried in his gut before white oblivion knocked them out.

“Death of the Morning Star,” Gabriel says, “not exactly expected at this point in time. So; it was you then?” Gabriel directs the last of his sentence at Crowley who looks at him.

It’s at this moment that Aziraphale realises what is different about Crowley’s face. His _eyes_.

“Crowley… ” Aziraphale breathes. “Your eyes.”

What were once clearly demonic are now more. They’re still their golden hue but where he had snake-like pupils, now he has more human-like ones. They’re a little too curved to be truly human but they’re so much closer now that Aziraphale is shocked he didn’t realise the moment he looked at Crowley.

“He deserved it.” Crowley doesn’t look away from Gabriel, doesn’t respond to Aziraphale. “_He deserved it_.”

Aziraphale looks at the angels and demons in his bookshop and sees a range of emotion on faces he’s never really seen much emotion on. Gabriel seems a little annoyed but more relieved than anything. Michael seems grieved. Sandalphon is… well, Aziraphale would say that Sandalphon is giving Crowley a look of _respect_. Beelzebub though… her expression is one that Aziraphale lingers on.

He never thought to see pity on a demon’s face except for Crowley.

Beelzebub steps forward, away from the demons she’s brought with them, and crosses the space to Crowley. She stops directly in front of him. Crowley stares at her.

Then the representative of hell that had only days ago presided over the trial and execution of The Traitor does something Aziraphale never expects.

She _bows_.

“Hail the new King of Hell,” she says and the two demons with her drop to their knees.

Gabriel, Michael, and Sandalphon all perform a salute that Aziraphale barely remembers. It’s the salute given to someone who is of equal status.

Crowley stares at them all.

Aziraphale stares at Crowley.

“Leave us alone,” Crowley says. “Do what you want but leave us and earth alone.”

Instantly the mood shifts and Gabriel steps forward. “But the apoc—” he begins but the light Aziraphale had created flares a bright white that makes the archangel stop in his tracks.

In the bright light Crowley looks incredible. Beaten and injured but there’s so much beauty to the dem- the Fallen that Aziraphale just keeps on staring.

_“No.”_

Gabriel, for the first time that Aziraphale knows, backs down. “Fine,” the archangel says. “Maybe we can still use Mars.”

Beelzebub rises from where she kneels. She doesn’t look at Crowley again as she turns away from him and the two demons with her follow her out of the bookshop. Gabriel, Michael, and Sandalphon linger just long enough for Gabriel to look at Aziraphale.

“Whatever it is you’re about to ask of me,” Aziraphale says before Gabriel can open his mouth. “The answer is most assuredly: _no_.”

Gabriel stares at him and huffs. “Fine,” he bites out. “But good luck handling him now, Aziraphale.” He points at Crowley. “We won’t come if you call for us.”

“Excellent.” Aziraphale gives Gabriel a far more feral smile than he would normally but he has just helped kill the Devil, he can be forgiven for being a bit bloodthirsty right now. “I’d hate to have to _forcibly remove_ any of you.”

Something in Aziraphale’s tone must convey every ounce of bloodthirst the angel feels because Gabriel, Michael, and Sandalphon quickly leave, the door to the bookshop shutting with a prime snap and a tingling bell.

Silence falls in the bookshop and Aziraphale wants to break it but it doesn’t feel right so he doesn’t. Instead he waits.

Crowley breaks it.

“I’m sorry angel,” the dem- Crowley says and it sounds like a broken admission. “I didn’t- I didn’t think he’d be at the trial. I- I _hoped_ he wouldn’t.” Crowley laughs. “Stupid of me.”

“Not stupid,” Aziraphale says. “Hope is never stupid.” Aziraphale steps closer to Crowley and Crowley looks him in the eye. “I would hope you would- well- I’ve always hoped you know- well- that I care about you,” he confesses, “very much.”

Crowley stares at him with wide-eyes and they’re so very open that Aziraphale can’t help but smile softly. He touches Crowley’s face with slightly trembling fingers—exhaustion and nerves—and lets out a choked breath when Crowley leans into the touch, eyes falling shut.

“Same angel,” Crowley admits, eyes still shut as he presses his cheek against Aziraphale’s palm. “I’ve cared for _so long_.” He opens his eyes. “I never thought-”

“I’m sorry it has taken so long for me to finally stop dithering, my dear,” Aziraphale cuts him off, apologising for drawing it all out for so, so long. He owes Crowley a thousand apologies and he will give them to him any way he can.

“Not your fault, angel,” Crowley says and it’s so Crowley to soothe him that Aziraphale has to laugh softly.

“You have always tried to make me feel better, my dear,” Aziraphale says, his smile softening as he locks his gaze with Crowley’s. “I have never thanked you for that. I haven’t thanked you for a lot of things you’ve done for me.”

Crowley shook his head a little. “Don’t do it for the thanks, angel.”

“I know.” Aziraphale presses his forehead against Crowley’s, their noses touching and he can’t stop smiling. “That is one of the many reasons I love you.”

Crowley chokes out a pained breath of emotion that Aziraphale can feel right down to his core. There is so much painful emotion, so much longing, so much pain, and it drives Aziraphale to action before he realises.

Crowley’s lips are dry and chapped, much like Aziraphale’s own right now, but they are still abnormally soft because they aren’t really human even if they appear as such. The de- Crowley whines and presses against Aziraphale’s body, wrapping arms around him with fingers clawing into the fabric of Aziraphale’s coat. Aziraphale wraps his own arms around Crowley, hand on his waist, the other at the base of his neck and Aziraphale senses that there is an absence of something on Crowley’s skin, his being, that he’s only ever been slightly aware of.

“Wait-” Aziraphale breaks the kiss, angling his head to look over Crowley’s shoulder at his neck. “Crowley- wait.” His fingers trace over clear skin and Aziraphale stares. “It’s gone.”

Crowley stiffens in his arms and Aziraphale looks at his face.

“Crowley it’s all right,” Aziraphale says, moving his hand away from Crowley’s neck to touch his cheek and gently stroke the small abrasions with his thumb. They disappear the moment he touches them, healed by his magic. “I don’t think any differently of you. I swear to you.”

Slowly Crowley unwinds, the tension draining out of him until he looks at Crowley with those eyes of his that have drawn Aziraphale in for six thousand years. “I believe you,” he says and Aziraphale breathes a soft, relieved sigh. “I love you too, angel.”

“Well that’s a relief.” Aziraphale smiles and Crowley returns the smile. “Would have been awkward if you didn’t.”

Crowley laughs. He laughs and Aziraphale can’t help but laugh as well. It’s absurd. It’s wild. It’s the laughter of two beings who have been through _so much _and have _kept going regardless_ because that’s all they _could_ do. Now they can breathe and it’s a relief.

Because now they don’t have to just hope. Now they can _live_.

Aziraphale, just before he reclaims Crowley’s lips with his own, wonders if this is how it felt to eat the apple. No wonder Eve never regretted her actions if it is. Aziraphale doesn’t regret his either.

**Author's Note:**

> Bet ya weren't expecting _that_ were ya xD
> 
> Comments and kudos as always sustain me.
> 
> Note: yes, the [INSERT GOVERNMENT BUILDING HERE] thing is intentional


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